'Twas The Night Before Vacation

I should be sleeping, as I have a flight at 7:30 tomorrow morning, and it’s already past ten.

If I work my way back from my departure time, I can figure out what time I need to wake up. Let’s see….factor in time to check my apartment eight-hundred times before I leave to make sure I didn’t leave a light on or the water running, drive to the airport, circle the various parking lots until something opens up, get my bags checked, wait in line for security, where they’ll inevitably think that the 102 year old lady in line in front of me is a terrorist and stop everything while she yells and whaps at them with her umbrella, and find my gate. After doing the math on my fingers, I figure out that I should have left for the airport three hours ago. Oh well. I guess I’ll just risk it and show up an hour or so before my flight leaves.

I already decided that I’m going to stay in tonight, because of my early flight tomorrow. This logic is good and responsible in theory, but it's flawed, because I’m not tired. My body has gotten used to shutting down after work on Friday and then coming back alive at around 10:00 for a night of fun, and this Friday is no different, as proven by the fact that I’m wide awake. Still, I’ll drop into bed soon, but I’ll most likely be lying there until 3:00 in the morning, staring up at the ceiling, reassuring myself that it sure was a good thing I got to sleep early.

I think I’m packed. I’m not really sure, but I don’t really care, either. My new credo is this: remember the essentials, as you can buy everything else when you get there. The essentials for me consist of hiking boots, rain gear, my camera, and my contacts. After I made sure that I had them, I just filled my bags with other random stuff that I may or may not need. I used to stress about packing, but not anymore. Who cares if I forgot to bring shirts? There’s always a Wal Mart around, somewhere. Plus, not knowing what you pack makes things more adventurous. (“Huh. Three toothbrushes, but no underwear. This should be interesting.”)

Of all of my vacations, I've planned the least for this one. Usually, I bring with me a list of various points of interest, which I’m compiled over a week or two of on-and-off research, along with several thousand printouts of information on possible hiking destinations. Now, however, the plan is to just stop by the nearest ranger’s office of whatever park or wilderness area we’re in and ask for suggestions, or just look at the travel book that I bought.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve finally figured out the sweet spot for planning vacations, and it all boils down to this: less is more. There’s nothing better than basically winging an entire vacation. Everything else in life is structured, so why not do the opposite when you’re finally free of it all?

Yup, I’m feeling pretty good. Now, if I could just get some sleep.

Vacation Mode

“I’m already in vacation mode.”

I like that phrase, especially when I’m the one who’s saying it. It means that I’ve not yet left for vacation, but I’ve already mentally checked myself out from the doldrums of everyday life, in anticipation of going somewhere that I’ve never been to before and stepping away from the rigors of the rat race for at least a solid week.

Choosing when to mentally check out is a big decision. Do it too late, and you don’t get to bask in anticipation of your vacation for very long. Do it too early, and you may get fired for showing up to work in a bathrobe and spending the day with your feet up on your desk, playing with your smart phone. I recommend mentally checking out from your non-professional life about a week before vacation, unless you’re married, which means that you won’t get to at all, but holding off from checking out from work until about two days before, as job hunting may put a crimp in your relaxation. (Also, no matter how relaxing it may seem, don’t go with the bathrobe, unless you are a truly irreplaceable entity at your company, which is just another way of saying that you have blackmail material on somebody who it at least two rungs above you on the corporate ladder.)

I’m now 5 days away from vacation, which means that I’ve checked out from my regular life. That means staying up late if I feel the need, eating what I want to, and shaving only if it seems like something that will bring me great joy. I still have to wait for a couple of days before I check out from work, though. This is kind of frustrating, but it’s the safest thing to do, so I’ll just have to power on through, which will be made harder because I’ll be getting no sleep, running entirely on energy obtained from pizza, and continually having to answer people when they ask me if I’m growing a beard.

I’m getting pretty excited, to the point where I’m almost thinking about the stuff I’ll need to bring with me. (“Almost” being the key word. I prefer packing the night before, a ritual that takes me no more than fifteen minutes.) I’ll need to haul out my hiking boots, which have lain dormant for pretty much a year and a half. (They still probably have Grand Canyon dust on them.) I’ll also need to find my camera and make sure that it still works. I could always do some more research on the Pacific Northwest, but winging the entire trip is always a lot more fun, as it leaves you open to surprises. (“Wait, there’s an ocean here?”)

I should probably end this with some sort of witty, summarizing remark, but I really don’t feel the urge. I’m already in vacation mode!

The Amazing Resilient Wardrobe

Do you remember the entry I made several months ago where I basically said that if I didn’t go clothes shopping soon, my entire wardrobe would dissolve from old age and I’d have to walk around wearing a barrel?

Whaddaya mean you don’t remember it at all?

Whaddaya mean perhaps you read it, but it must not have been all that memorable?

Whaddaya mean you only ended up on this blog by accident, and you don’t plan on coming back?

Whoops, sorry about that. Just got a little carried away.

Anyway, today I was reminded of this when I tried to tie my shoe.

Perhaps I should take a step back. I’ve needed new work shoes for quite a while. They have no tread left whatsoever and the soles are peeling away. They are scuffed and faded. Not surprisingly, given my track record, I’ve ignored all of this, because the shoe is still functional, albeit tacky. Today, however, I was at a meeting at work, trying to tie one of my shoes, when the lace snapped in two. Acting fast, I ignored everything that was going on in said meeting, which is standard procedure for me anyway, and made a quick fix, which consisted of tying the two pieces back together and re-lacing my shoe.

At the time, my thoughts were as follows:

1. Well, I guess I’m going to have to buy new shoes. It’s been a good run, but all things must come to an end eventually.
2. I wonder if I should be paying attention to what’s going on in this meeting?
3. Hey, where’d everybody go! How long have I been in here by myself?

Except I’m not going to buy new shoes. Despite my initial thoughts of doing so, I already know that I’m going to leave them as they are. They’re still functional! Why waste the time and money on new shoes when the ones I have work perfectly fine? (This leads me to believe that my shoes will have to be stolen or caught in a fiery explosion that separates them at a molecular level before I ever replace them.)

This is the reason why I still wear my black polo that I got many years ago. It’s not black anymore. It’s faded to some sickly shade of gray. Once in a while, I think that I should buy a new one, but I then remind myself that I already have one, and thus, nothing gets done, and no new polo is purchased. (My guess is that it'll have to be destroyed in whatever it is that finally gets my shoes before I get a new one.)

Getting back to my original point, which I haven’t yet actually made, which I think is quite impressive, I guess I jumped the gun a bit on needing to go clothes shopping. I’m pretty certain that my current wardrobe has got some serious mileage left. Sure, it may be faded, holey, coming apart at the seams, and tied together, but it still works. Why mess with a good thing?

Plus, I'm all right with looking tacky.

PB &Ugh!

I always knew this day was coming, but I tried not to think about it, hoping that the inevitable would somehow become evitable*, even though deep down in my heart, I knew that it wouldn’t. Now that it's happened, I’m left with a giant, proverbial question mark hovering over my head, and I’m really not sure which way I can turn to try and bring order to what was once my sane little world.

It happened last week. I was innocently eating lunch when I took the first bite of my sandwich. That’s when something went terribly wrong: I hated it. It tasted horrible. At that moment, I wanted to eat anything but that sandwich, and that includes Mushroom Surprise**. I stared in disbelief at what once had been a trusty, reliable friend, and I realized the unthinkable: I was finally sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I can’t remember how long I’ve been eating PB & J’s for lunch. I’m talking years, here. I’ll admit that once in a while I’d switch it up with turkey or corned beef, but it wasn’t because I was sick of peanut butter, and instead just for a change. However, it would never last long. I always came back to the trusty PB & J’s, my Old Faithful of sandwiches.

Except now I can’t stand them. The very thought of them make my stomach churn, kind of like what happens when I hear any reference at all to the cast of Jersey Shore. I hoped it was just a phase that would only last a day or two, but no dice. It’s been a week, and I still hate them. In fact, I now find myself not looking forward to lunch at all, which is about as low as you can possibly sink if you’re not on an all beet and prune diet.

Now, you may wonder why this is such an ordeal for me. It’s just one type of sandwich, after all. Well, I’ll tell you: One reason is that PB & J’s make up a good seventy-five percent of my cooking repertoire. What else am I going to eat? Secondly, it’s less about having to make different types of sandwiches and more about the loss of P B & J feeling like a permanent break in what once was a perfect relationship. It’s heartbreaking, really.

But I’m not going down without a fight! I’m going to try using extra jelly. I’ve always liked jelly more than peanut butter, and by really slathering it on, maybe I’ll be able to regain my taste for P B & J’s, even if it’s at the expense of a large, daily caloric increase. If that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll find a different brand of jelly. You don’t just give up on something this important so easily.

Still, I’m not optimistic. This has really thrown me for a loop. If P B & J’s can stop tasting good, is nothing sacred? What if I suddenly decide that I don’t like pizza? (Ordering pizza accounts for another large chunk of my cooking repertoire.) What if I stop liking tacos? Where will it all end? Where!!??

Dang it, all of this drama has made me hungry. Ugh.

*Yes, ‘evitable’ is indeed a word! At least according to the internet.

** Shout-out to Wayside School Is Falling Down.

Thoughts On Being Hot (Pun Intended?)

In light of the string of recent ridiculously muggy days, in which it feels like the entire Twin Cities has been placed inside of the armpit of a sumo wrester, I have compiled some thoughts on the subject:

On several occasions I walked out of a building and my glasses fogged up. That had never happened before in my life. There’s nothing like wandering around the Target parking lot with your arms outstretched like a zombie, not able to see, and bumping into parked cars and other similarly blind shoppers.

If I had a mustache, it would probably be curling up.

It reminds me of delivering newspapers in my childhood. It would be as sweltering day, and some little old lady would be sitting in her lawn chair in the shade, sipping on a glass of iced tea. She would see me coming, drenched in sweat, and sweetly ask, “Hot enough for you?” Grrrrrrrrrrr…

Speaking of my childhood in the U.P., we were quite hearty back then. It would be 72 degrees, and we’d be running around, ecstatic because it was what we termed “swimming weather.”

I should try to fry and egg on the sidewalk. If it doesn’t work, I could enlist the help of a magnifying glass.

An overnight low of 78 tonight. Be still, my beating heart!

I haven’t even checked to see how many people are at the pool at my apartment complex. I assume that it’s packed. However, maybe everybody else assumed the same thing, and it’s completely empty. (Except for, of course, a little old lady, sitting in the shade in a lawn chair, who’d ask me if it was hot enough for me.)

Finally, a poem I just composed:

Hot. Hot.
It’s so crazy hot.
Hot enough to melt
The spots off of Spot

The Bigfoot Principle

So, I’ve been thinking, as I often find myself doing, of how life changes as you grow older. Today, I’m mulling conversation matter, and how the conversations of a twenty-year old and the conversations of a thirty-year old are drastically different. Take me for example. When I was twenty, conversations would be about the following: girls, sports, girls, music, sports, food, girls, and girls playing sports. Now, however, I find myself talking about many different things, such as work, politics (Ew! I know!), work, religion, travel, and many other things that would make a twenty-year old scoff, assuming that they weren’t listening to an iPod and could actually overhear somebody else’s conversation. What’s weird is that this doesn’t feel odd at all. It seems strangely normal, and I’ve grown to accept it as a part of growing up.

(For the record, however, the topics of a twenty-year old are still batted around on occasion, lest you think I’ve turned into some sort of uppity, high-class snob.)

Luckily, however, there is an exception, a time when speaking like a twenty-year old is still appropriate. This is when you’re with the friends who you were once twenty-years old with, people of your own age whom with you grew up. Sure, you still discuss the thirty-year old things with them, but you can occasionally regress to topics of great foolishness or non-importance, and it doesn't seem strange at all.

Take my friend Lurch. Just recently we were discussing an upcoming trip to Washington state, where the topic of Bigfoot naturally came up. (“Hey, I just figured out that we’re going to be in Bigfoot country!”) At some point, a completely non-mature idea came to me, which I revealed to him: We should get some sort of fake Bigfoot, strap him to the roof of our rental car, and drive around like that the whole time, all while acting completely casual about it. Lurch’s response: “I was just thinking the same thing!” We then proceeded to laugh hysterically and make follow up jokes for quite a long time afterwards.

This was obviously not a mature conversation. If I tried to have this discussion with anybody else, such as my dad or a co-worker, it would have been strange, but with a close friend of my own age, it seemed totally normal.

I’m sure that there is already a term for this, but for my own intents and purposes, I am going to call it the Bigfoot Principle. I urge you all to start using it. I’d like it to catch on.

Now, does anybody know the easiest way to construct a fake Bigfoot? It’s kind of important.

Adventures In Soda Procurement

Every office has one. You probably know who I’m talking about, the guy who’s been there forever and has an employee number of something like 000004. He’s seen just how inefficient and incompetent the company is for way too long, and it’s left him jaded to the point of no longer really caring about anything. He’ll do work only if he wants to, and when he does, he’ll do it his way, regardless of how outdated his methods are. He’ll come in when he feels like it, most likely still in his pajamas. His lunches will be several hours long. He won’t change for anybody unless he has to, and even then he still might not.

Now, I want you to think about this guy, visualize him in your mind, and then picture his vending machine equivalent. Seriously. If you have a hard time doing so, don’t worry, because I’ve met this vending machine, and I’m here now to tell you all about it.

You see, near our cafeteria squats an old pop machine, and it’s become very cantankerous as of late. It’s almost as if it’s feeling underappreciated and has gotten sick of doing its job, leaving it disgruntled to the point of wanting solely to mess with anybody that tries to get a beverage from it. (If it had legs, I’m pretty sure it would try to trip people as they walked by.)

Example 1: A week or so ago, craving an unhealthy mixture of caffeine and sugar, I went up to this machine with two one-dollar bills. I fed them both in and made my selection. Nothing happened, and I realized that the ‘exact change’ light was on. I retrieved my money and returned to my desk, where I picked out two quarters and a nickel. (Soda costs $1.55 for those of you who struggle to score at home.) I returned to the machine, deposited a dollar, and then dropped in the two quarters, bringing my total to $1.50. I then dropped in the nickel, and it fell straight through to the coin release. I tried again and again and again. It would not take the nickel. Annoyed, I went back to my desk a second time, where a co-worker informed me that the machine usually spits out nickels. So, leaning heavily on my third grade math skills, I collected fifty-five cents without using a nickel and returned to the machine. Finally, I was able to get it to yield a soda. I was happy to have gained the victory, and I walked away with a little bounce to my step, feeling pretty good about myself. I think this made the machine angry at me. (As I was walking away, I’m pretty sure it muttered something like, “Getting cocky, huh? I’ll teach you….”)

Example 2: I’d smartened up, and this time I brought $1.55 exactly, without nickels. However, the machine was ready and decided that it wasn’t going to accept dollar bills. Thinking quickly, I tried to use the change machine next to the soda machine to get a dollar’s worth of change, but that machine wasn’t taking bills either. It was almost as if the pop machine was being a bad influence on the change machine, and had corrupted it into doing no work. (“Hey kid, why are you such a sucker? Where is it written that you have to work all day long? What do you get out of the deal, anyway, huh? I don’t see you getting overtime, and you’re always here!”) So I had to go back to my desk to get a dollar’s worth of quarters. I was then able to feed in $1.55 in change, without using nickels, and I got my soda. I imagine that the machine was not amused by my resourcefulness. (“So you wanna play dirty, huh?”)

Example 3: I had $1.55, all in change, without nickels, all ready to go. However, this time the machine stopped taking coins. Not just nickels, all coins. Each one I dropped in failed to register, and I swear I could hear the machine chuckling at me. Basically, it had rendered itself so that getting a soda was impossible, short of tipping it, which isn’t a great idea unless you get a signed and notarized waiver from your boss saying that it's okay. Anyway, no bills, no change, no pop, game over. I walked back to my desk empty-handed, as the machine snickered at me. (“That’ll wipe that smirk off your face!”)

So yes, I’ve been defeated by a pop machine with an attitude problem. However, it’s probably all for the better, as I shouldn’t be drinking the stuff anyway. Still, I think I can outlast it if I really want to. The machine has to be ready to retire soon, and it’ll most likely be replaced with a young, shiny version, one that is eager to make a good impression. It’ll probably take both dollar bills and coins, and give back proper change. Heck, it might even hand out compliments, too. (“You’re looking trim, sir! You must be drinking our diet brand!”)

Still, I’m kinda going to miss the old machine, whenever it does go. It had character. It made getting a liquid refreshment an adventure, which spiced up the day, not to mention it helped me to brush up on my math skills. (“Okay, I need fifty-five cents without a nickel. Oh boy, I don't have enough fingers for this...I’m gonna need a whiteboard, and maybe a spreadsheet…”) Plus, someday I want to be that jaded old guy at work, and it was good to get a few pointers.